


Lashes

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [89]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, First Time, M/M, angstish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minijaxter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minijaxter/gifts).



John doesn’t know how they got here but he knew, had always known, that this is where they’d end up. It was just a matter of time. Time he’d thought he’d lost until hours ago, when he’d looked up at the restaurant and seen that face and everything he’d thought he’d built, every wall so carefully balanced back together with mud and straw and sand, had come crumbling down like so much rubbish.

Which it had been, of course, but he’d been trying not to see it, waiting for something more solid to come along and slap itself around the outside and hold it all together.

So much for that. John stares up at Sherlock’s face above his, completely visible in the overhead light, and wonders at just how easy this had been.

They don’t speak. Not a word since John had appeared at the door that morning and standing in 221b with the light filtering in and highlighting all the dust, he hadn’t known what to say. Had wanted to apologise, had wanted to demand an apology. He hated Sherlock but that had always been just the concrete casing on the outside, holding it all up. Inside it was rubbish and as he stared at this man, this hated loved needed wanted figure in this place that had been theirs, he could feel himself falling apart from the inside out and there hadn’t been words, hadn’t needed to be words. He’d stepped forward and Sherlock had stepped back, uncertainty, a flicker of fear on his face, unsure if John was going to hit him. But John had no use for pain, not like that, not any more. He’d grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his dressing gown and kissed him, hard and unrelenting and it took barely a breath before Sherlock was kissing him back.

It was Sherlock who had turned the lights on in the bedroom, understanding for both of them. Sherlock smelled different. _John_ smelled different. And in the uncertain light of the back bedroom it would have been too easy to mistake one another for someone else, mistake this place for somewhere else. They had stripped each other frantically, fingers shaking, breaths too short, too close to hyperventilation. Pressed against each other and feeling skin they’d never felt before it was terrifyingly new and yet achingly familiar as well, as if somewhere along the way some dream had edged over into reality. 

They’d collapsed on the bed, Sherlock dragging John down with him, and John had been too wrapped up in the feeling of soft flesh and jutting bone to notice the sharp inhalation of breath below him, the sudden paling of that miraculous face. It was gone in an instant anyway, Sherlock dragging John closer, rubbing himself against John like a cat as if trying to scent him, trying to mark him, and John, shamelessly, had done the same till they were rutting against each other like animals.

It was Sherlock who had pulled them back from the brink, purely accidentally. Hands sliding lower, grasping for flesh, any flesh, those calloused fingers had dug in a little too deeply and John had cried out, arching back as the tip of a finger had pressed in where he’d never had a finger before and he would have come right then except that Sherlock had pulled abruptly back, holding John down and gentling him with panting breaths and soothing hands. And he didn’t need to speak the words for John to hear them: _slow._ And John had agreed, letting those hands take him under again, those lips find his, and this time when that finger had found him, sliding slowly between his thighs and up towards that spot, slick with John’s own saliva, he’d merely whimpered, pressing back on it and asking for more.

It was how he had come, that first time, staring down at Sherlock, their erections pressed between them, Sherlock’s finger deeper inside him than anything had ever been before. He had cried when he’d orgasmed, something tearing out of him, and it’s the first time he had let himself cry for Sherlock, now when it turned out he hadn’t needed to at all. Sherlock had held him, his lips against his ear, and had told him with his breath and his heartbeat that it was alright.

And then, when John could breath again, Sherlock had turned them over, kissing John on the face, on the neck. He’d slid himself between John’s thighs and John had wrapped himself around him, that reassuring weight that wasn’t nearly heavy enough. Too thin, too hungry, too pale. When Sherlock had pulled back to reach for his bedside drawer, it was the first time John saw the scars, the first time he’d been far enough away to notice them. Some of them were old, the result of years worth of healing. But others...they were livid and ridged and John had reached out, run a hand along one that was still too new and Sherlock had sucked a breath in but had let him.

Now, above him, they’re hidden again, Sherlock once again too close, their skin pressed against each other as John wraps himself around him, pulling him down. He can feel the slicked length of Sherlock’s erection prodding at that place between his legs and John wants him there, wants to feel how _present_ he is in a place he can’t mistake, but for the moment, for a few seconds John just holds him, surrounds him with limbs and lets his fingers trace the things he hasn’t yet seen, knife wounds and bullet holes and on his back, lashes from a whip, the marks too warm to touch. Sherlock inhales, exhales, and lets him, his face buried in the crook of John’s neck and John can feel the pillow growing wet beneath them as he cries.


End file.
